I grew up in the South, a preacher’s kid in a conservative Seventh-day Adventist household. In a world where queerness wasn’t just frowned upon—it was condemned. From an early age, I was taught that being anything other than straight was wrong, sinful, and something that needed to be fixed.
By the time I was eight, I was sent to conversion therapy, a so-called “treatment” meant to “cure” me. Instead, it left me broken. I remember sitting in a dimly lit room, surrounded by adults who told me that my feelings were a sickness, that I could pray them away. They laid hands on me, whispered fervent prayers, and told me to resist the devil inside. I learned to fear my own identity, to believe that the parts of me that were most authentic were flaws to be eradicated. The prayers and so-called “counseling” that followed only deepened my shame.
The mental and emotional toll of conversion therapy was profound—anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts, mood swings, and trauma. Worse still, it created a deep disconnect between my mind and body. The healing process was far from linear. For years, I didn’t know who I was or what it meant to love myself fully.
The mental and emotional toll of conversion therapy was profound—anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts, mood swings, and trauma. Worse still, it created a deep disconnect between my mind and body. The healing process was far from linear. For years, I didn’t know who I was or what it meant to love myself fully.
What I didn’t understand at the time was how these emotional scars would shape my future. Growing up in a household where sex was never discussed outside of the context of marriage between a man and a woman, I wasn’t taught how to navigate intimacy as a queer person. I didn’t know about HIV testing, or condoms. I never received the sexual health education that could have protected me. Without that knowledge, I unknowingly put myself at risk—and I contracted HIV.
This wasn’t due to recklessness—it was because I lacked the information needed to make informed decisions about my sexual health. When you grow up in an environment where intimacy is taboo, where queerness is stigmatized, and where your identity is something to be “fixed,” you become vulnerable in ways you don’t even realize. Later in life, I understood how this lack of guidance had a direct impact on my health, but by then, I was already navigating the consequences.
But here’s the thing: While my past shaped me, it didn’t define me. I refused to let those experiences break me. Instead, I channeled that pain into purpose. I turned my story of trauma into one of resilience. I built The Bros in Convo Initiative in Orlando, Florida—a space for Black gay and queer individuals to show up as their true, unapologetic selves. A space for joy, affirmation, and radical care. Through this work, I found community—and through community, I found healing.
Today, as I watch the rise of anti-LGBTQ+ laws across the nation, it feels like we’re facing a tidal wave of hate-driven legislation and harmful rhetoric. These attacks aren’t just happening in the South—they’re being pushed by an entire political movement that seeks to erase LGBTQ+ identities from public and political discourse. In particular, the trans community is under siege. Every day, we see more policies aimed at banning trans youth from sports, limiting access to gender-affirming care, and restricting their right to simply exist in public life. But this isn’t just an attack on trans people—it’s an attack on all of us.
These policies tell us that our identities are something to be erased, that our existence is a problem. But these aren’t just words on paper—they are weapons that cause real harm. I know this firsthand. I lived through the erasure, rejection, and fear these policies seek to create But what my experiences have taught me is this: We don’t just survive—we fight.
The attacks on our community fuel my commitment to mobilizing for health equity, especially for Black queer people who are at the intersection of multiple health disparities. Our health matters. Our rights matter. We deserve access to care that’s not just available, but affirming and supportive of who we are.
The attacks on our community fuel my commitment to mobilizing for health equity, especially for Black queer people who are at the intersection of multiple health disparities. Our health matters. Our rights matter. We deserve access to care that’s not just available, but affirming and supportive of who we are.
As we look to the future, I know the fight is far from over. The road ahead is not easy, and the resistance is real. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my past, it’s that we don’t rise just by surviving—we rise by resisting. And there are ways we can make a difference, right now:
- Refuse to stay silent. The louder we speak, the more difficult it becomes for our voices to be ignored. We show up at protests, at school board meetings, in our workplaces—we demand our rights. We don’t wait for permission to exist, to thrive, and to be unapologetically ourselves.
- Support organizations on the frontlines. The Bros in Convo Initiative in Orlando, the Campaign for Southern Equality, and groups like House of Kanautica in North Carolina are creating spaces for affirmation, care, and resistance. These groups need us—not just in words, but in action. Whether it’s funding, volunteering, or spreading the word, we all have a role to play.
- Create spaces of love and resistance. It’s not always about big, public actions. Sometimes it’s as simple as offering a safe space for someone, whether that’s a conversation in your living room or creating a queer-affirming Bible study. These are spaces where healing and resistance happen every day.
- Invest in collective action. Every single person can make an impact. Whether it’s amplifying the voices of those leading the charge or offering our own time and resources. When we come together, we build strength. Together, we rise.
The attacks on our community are real, but our power is real, too. I dream of a future where Black queer kids don’t have to heal from their childhoods, where policies protect us instead of trying to erase us, where health equity is a given—not a privilege. A future where we don’t just endure—we thrive.
To my LGBTQIA+ family across the South and beyond: I see you. I feel the weight of these policies. I know the fear, the exhaustion, and the struggle. But I also know that within each of us is the strength to rise above. We’ve survived before, and we will continue to rise. Together.
We are here. We are worthy. And we are unstoppable.
